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Swing Low

There's something about a swing that relaxes my soul. Maybe it takes me back to my childhood to the days where I spent countless hours being rocked in the arms of family, Momma and Maw Maw's rockers, or the old swing at Paw Paw's house.

Nestled in the backyard the fragrance of Satsumas was the first smell to fill your senses. The swing set between two large trees near the gravel driveway. I can still hear the acorns crunching beneath my feet as I carefully made my way barefoot to its place. Paw Paw, in his mesh trucker hat with the name of his business emblazoned ono the front and his uniform shirt with the name patch always claimed the end of the swing and rested one arm outstretched along the back of the swing. He always set the rhythm and cadence of the rock since his feet were the only ones that touched the ground, no matter how hard I tried. A warm breeze attempted to cool the wet, muggy air, but more than often was unsuccessful.

Many times, the swing was crowded as Laura, Billy, Hope, Craig, or Larry often joined us. But today was different. I had him all to myself. I'm sure there was conversation, but I am unable to jog that memory. Even now, I can recall very few of the words we've spoken, and for that I have regret. But this day, I remember his song.

Slow and steady, his voice carried a sweet melody as he sang the words, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, Coming forth to carry me home..." His voice was rich with depth of character and soul of the man he was. And his voice will forever be attached to that song.

Today I don't see him as often as I should, or as often as I would like and each time I do, he ages tremendously reminding me of the little time I have left to make more memories.

I'm living in a house that was purchased in 1960 and had one owner. When we moved in, it was full of a life that was lived.

Since we've moved into it, we have spent hours sorting through vacation souvenirs, family photos, handmade clothes, kitchen supplies, closets full of linens and the likes.

Through this "cleaning" we have noticed how the person who lived here tried her best to keep her home in the best shape possible, even when she wasn't able. Tonight as we cleaned the master bedroom in preparation to rip the carpet up and paint the walls, we discovered mini-blinds that were taped together with kleenex to block the light out and chipped paint held in place from the places it was falling by scotch tape. While it is a nuisance to remove from the walls, the scotch tape struck a chord with me and immediately saddened me upon its sight.

Here was a precious woman holding together something she found precious with scotch tape. It immediately led me to think …

The paintings of Monet have always inspired me - the strokes that appear random upon close inspection of a canvas takes on a different appearance the further away you position yourself from the piece. Slowly images begin to appear and make sense to the observer. The strokes that appeared sloppily orchestrated up close or even appeared as possible mistakes, now create the delicate petals of water lilies on the surface of a pond. Instead of images becoming clearer the closer you step, focus appears as you take in the entire masterpiece.

I've been contemplating the large masterpiece of my life recently. For so long I've been focused on the individual brushstrokes that don't make sense. I can't piece them together. The blues, pinks, and purples that are smeared across the canvas - the heartache, the challenges, the questions, the difficulties - I can't see the entire canvas, yet. But, I know who does. The one who knows the very number of the hairs on my head.